


Fireside Idyll

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [41]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Games, Jewellery, M/M, Smut, Some Fluff, angst if you look hard enough, but pretty much just smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a - fairly typical - day in Aglarond......</p><p>Otherwise known as lots of smut, Legolas distracting Gimli from his life's work, fluff, that sort of thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireside Idyll

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hope91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope91/gifts).



> Yuletide gift for Hope91.
> 
> just because, really.

There.

Finished the bloody heap of papers.

Right Droin, my dear cousin, first thing tomorrow, that all goes back on your fucking desk and you can bloody well deal with it.

I am done.

Poor sodding elf has been waiting all day.

So patient.

One thing about an elf, I suppose, he is good at waiting.

Well, I think, looking down to where he is sitting, curled against my leg, head on my knee, quite good.

He is in reverie now, song faint – perfect to work to – his eyes open, but fixed in that glassy stare that still – still, after all these years – gives me a second’s worry if I am not prepared.

As it is, I can enjoy looking at him a moment, let my eyes linger over his wonderful hair – disarrayed, but in _my_ braids, _my_ beads – his hands, those long elegant fingers lax against my thighs, just touching enough to know I am there, my bracelet on his wrist, my necklace around his neck, both welded closed, sealed onto him, my name inked on his chest, part of him forever, his sweet tight arse, so well displayed in that position, deliberately or not I do not know, his pretty ears, their delicate leaf-points twitching at any sound, and oh his beautiful face, so cold as it might seem to others, but even like this, even when he is not there, lovely to me.

Especially lovely, I think, when I can see traces of myself around his mouth. That pretty pink tongue must have missed a bit when lapping up. Beautiful.

Mahal, but he knows how to please me. And if that sounds ungenerous – it is not. He had as much pleasure from that as I did.

Only have to look at the front of his leggings to see that.

Oh my sweet elf.

And I let myself sit here a moment longer, just to remember how good – how fucking good it feels when he does that. When he kneels between my legs, under my desk, unlaces me, and puts his head down and gets to work. 

His hands, holding my hips, not seeking to control me, never that, he is not one to wish for that, but just to balance himself, to give himself some kind of anchor, I think. His sweet mouth sucking, elven control allowing him to take me in so deep, oh my elf, so skilled as he is, after all the hours of practice, his tongue busy, and – the best part I think – his voice rising out of song into pleased moans and cries.

No. Not the best part. 

That, that would be his face, the pleasure clear on it, his ears pink and twitching – and how he hates me saying that, but they do and very lovely it is – his eyes looking up at me – eyes I could drown in. Eyes I sometimes think I did drown in years ago, and ever since, I am no more Gimli son of Gloin, but some other Gimli, Gimli, besotted of Legolas, Gimli Elvellon, Gimli who has no will, no control, nothing when this ethereal creature bids me do – anything. 

Oh my sweet elf. 

You knelt there, and I daresay to any who saw – not that any did see, at least I hope not, I wouldn’t know, a crowd of dwarves with their grievances could walk in when you are doing that to me and I wouldn’t hear them – to any who saw, you were pleasing me, and taking nothing in return, you were obedient and – and almost submissive. 

Hah.

As if.

As bloody if.

You were loving it as much as I, my thumbs on your ears, my hands in your hair might seem so little, but no. No indeed. You are an elf.

Bloody weird elf.

I had said, no. Sodding elf in heat, leave me be. I need to do this. I must get through this work, there is a feast tonight, I shall do little tomorrow, and then – then you wish us to leave, to return to your Ithilien. Get off. Stop it. Put your tunic back on. Oh Durin help me, elf, get up.

But – when have you ever, ever listened to me? 

Never, I think, since you learned to tell my tone of voice, since you learned when I really mean it, and when I say it merely because – because I think I should. Never since I let you spend too much time with my parents, and see how they were together, how their affection showed itself in teasing. 

I still miss them.

Although – not when you are busy, my sweet elf.

Not when you, ignoring my protests, and they were not very convincing, I daresay, you kneel there, mouth busy, and pull my hands to your head, and whimper longingly. Not when you look up at me, and I see the love in your eyes so clear, and I know you are mine, mine forever, and I say something of this, some garbled words, some foolish love-talk, and I know my words are nothing compared to the poetry of your kind, but – somehow it is enough for you. 

You cling, and you cry out around me, and I – I think of nothing beyond your warm wet mouth, your clever tongue, your clutching hands, and loving face – and I bury my hands in your silken hair, I flick your earpoints, and oh sweet, sweet elf – you come for me. I watch your hips move, your eyes shut tight, and – oh even now you keep sucking at me, desperate for me – even as I hear your voice rise in something as close to a wail as you can with your mouth so full – and oh how I love you. You who even after your own pleasure will keep going, needing me so, until I spill in your mouth, and you swallow, and lick, and there is no sign left as you lace me again and curl down to rest beside me, your pretty tongue cleaning every trace from your face.

Not quite every trace.

Oh my sweet elf.

Oh shit.

Look at the time. 

We have a feast to go to. The lord of Aglarond should be there. 

Both of them.

As it is, there will be time for what I had planned, I think, but not if I waste more time looking at my daft sodding elf.

My beautiful elf.

My elf.

Carefully, I slide my arm around him, supporting him as I kneel beside him. I manage to get my other arm under his legs as he moves, and then it is no effort at all to stand, holding him in my arms, his head resting against my chest.

Daft creature is exhausted, it seems. Not waking at all.

Nice gentle song.

“Come on then, come on ghivashel,” I whisper, and as though he hears me – and for all I bloody know maybe he does, I still don’t understand this strange state he is in – he leans into me, anchors himself, one hand in my beard, one on my ear. Even in this state, I notice, he is still my weird bloody elf – it’s all about hair and ears to him, it doesn’t occur to him to clasp his arms round my neck as any not-elf would do.

It’s only as I walk into our room, as I lower him onto the rug by the fire – the fire that I set some time ago to be ready, warm and comforting, giving off heat and light, just about now – perhaps he did not slow me up as I thought – perhaps I had allowed for his game, I know him so well – only then, that I realise – I have divided the world into elves and not-elves, just as they do. 

Time passes. We have changed. Both of us.

He doesn’t want to let go of me, here on the rug, by the fire. Still not awake.

“Ssh,” I say, stroking his hair, trying to disentangle him, “ssh. Not going far. Just want to get something. Ssh now.”

But he clutches, and – I can’t leave him like this. I don’t know what days he is visiting in his mind, and I fear – I fear if I pull away, I may hurt him.

Stupid. He is no elfling, he is tougher than you think, Gimli.

Except – sometimes – when he is not in control – he isn’t. Sometimes he is still that little elfling he has spoken of, that cried and found no comfort. And I can’t bear it, the thought that I might hurt him so, even without meaning, even like this.

So I let him hold me, I kneel beside him, and I try again to loosen his hands.

No.

Not happening.

Going to have to wake him to get loose.

Oh well.

May as well wake him – nicely.

He is still half on my lap, steadying himself with his hands that clutch me, so it is easy enough to reach down and unlace his leggings, begin to ease them down, raising him, and – yes. There we are, my lovely one, not quite off, but below your knees.

Ridiculously long legs, my elf, I can’t possibly take these right off you.

Still, no boots, and no tunic – thrown off hours ago.

Almost naked, just – just your pretty ankles covered and as though bound.

You look lovely.

And that these leggings – and I hope you were not planning on wearing them again – that they are stained both with your pleasure, from kneeling to me, and my pleasure, from where you pulled them on again after I had you – oh my elf, forgive me, but that – that sends a shiver through me, that you are mine so utterly.

Oh fuck, you look good. Just the firelight, and the lamplight through the door reflecting on your skin. Your pale, pale skin. The shadows on you, the way your hair catches and throws the light. Your strange elven hair, so smooth, so – shiny.

Years don’t change you, you are as perfect as ever. 

Fuck. I want. 

There is not time for this.

I don’t bloody care.

I am not hurrying over this. Never have, never will.

Well, we have had our share of hasty fucks, but – not when he is so sleepy. Or whatever the bloody elf-word is.

Hands running over him, and, yes, somehow, I don’t understand this state, he knows not only that it is me, and not only can he, I suspect, feel exactly how hard I am, which, given that he is on my lap, is not a surprise, but he knows I am not going anywhere. And so he releases his hold on me, and lets me guide him onto the rug, lay him down on his side, facing away from where I kneel, his head on his arm, his wonderful hair all everywhere – shall have to braid that before we go out, I think, and oh fuck.

This – this is mine.

All spread out for me.

“Oh my elf,” I say, “my Legolas, you are so perfect. Look at you, lying there, all ready for me, oh so good, so bloody good. Your hair, dishevelled, your skin so smooth – all those fights, all those bloody fights, but no scars, you are so perfect, and all that strength in you, but you’re mine, and oh Mahal, your arse. There aren’t words. Just so right in my hands, and oh I know, I know you are going to feel so fucking good when I get inside you, so tight, so hot, oh I want. And,”  
I pause, and gently, so gently move his top leg forward, then, as I undo my breeches,  


“and oh my elf, look at you. It hasn’t been long since you tried to persuade me not to do any work at all today, has it? Not long since I had you bent over the desk, legs apart, my fingers deep, so deep in you, and then – then you begged for my cock, and oh fuck that was good, and you loved it, screaming for me, crying out for me, as you always love it, don’t you, my so-pliant love. Yes. Not long ago at all, and look at you now, all ready for me still, yes, my princeling, ready for me to enter you, no need to prepare you at all,”  
I lie down behind him, and gently, so gently, I slide into him, holding him close to me, my arm about his waist until I am deep, deep in him. I lie there, still, just feeling the warmth, feeling him hold me close, and I let my hand move down to touch his cock, hard and erect as he is. I play with him, gently, inexorably, I know what he likes, know how he likes it, and I keep talking,  
“there, that’s nice isn’t it. That’s the way the world should be, me in you, you in my arms, in my hands,” and I let the other hand reach forward and stroke his ear, “you just stay still, if you want, my pretty one, you keep pretending you are in reverie. Yes, but – love – I am not as daft as you think. I know when you are awake.”  
And I can feel him smile, feel the smile run through his whole body. “Oh my beloved, if you truly want me to think you are asleep, you will have to learn to control your body a little better. If your pretty pink-tipped ears didn’t give you away, your very, very pretty, pink-tipped erection would.”

He laughs, and it is the most wonderful sound I know.

Well. Almost. The screams and cries of my name are probably better, actually, but we’ll get to those soon.

“Sorry,” he says, “it’s just – such a very good way to wake. Mmm. Love you. Move? Please?”

How could I resist when he asks so nicely?

“Next time,” I say, as I begin to thrust, “next time, you are doing the work, my lazy one.”

“I – ah – am not – oh Gimli – not – oh – lazy – oh please – oh – I – I – oh meleth – please – yes – harder – not – lazy – I knelt – I – oh – please – oh Valar,” and now, yes now he is as I like him, loud and desperate, and adoring, “please Gimli – yes – oh – yes – oh Gimli – yes – don’t stop – please – yes – need – oh fuck – oh Gimli-nin, gi melin, gi melin, Gimli.”

And oh Durin forgive me, but is there anything, anything better than this?

“Love you.” I gasp into his hair as his tightening muscles pull me into that perfect moment, “Mine.”

His hand grips me, and the strength of him is beyond reasonable, 

“Always,” he says, and brings my hand to his mouth, kissing me clean.

 

 

 

A very good way to wake indeed, I think, as we lie, and he holds me, and I revel in this feeling of love, of safety, of comfort. But – there is not really time for this. I know it, and I would not have him shamed before his people.

He is as a King, and I his consort. I have a duty. A King who is too easily distracted by his consort, a King who cannot command his own, is a poor King.

Ada, I listened well to your lessons. 

“My lord,” I say, and then remember how little he likes that, “my Gimli, should we be dressing for this feast?”

I – I would rather lie here, in front of this fire, I would rather more loving, more holding, but – that is not the way of things. And so, we had best dress, and go to spend hours among others, talking, eating, drinking – drinking so that when we return he will fall into bed, and sleep, while I – I wait for him to waken, wait for him to look at me, touch me.

I am good at waiting for those I love to show they love me.

Ada, I learnt those lessons too.

He grunts, and pulls me closer.

“Yes, elf, we should. But I would rather stay here with you, my pretty one, and fuck you again.”

I smile, and the world is right, the jewels in the walls shine and sing like stars when once he has admitted this. I kiss his hand again, 

“Lord of Aglarond, would you have your dwarves come looking to see if all is well? No. So – what would you have your loyal consort wear tonight?”

And I turn in his arms, to see a smirk – definitely a smirk – on his face.

“I would have my loyal consort wear his many glittering jewels, and the firelight on his skin, and nothing else tonight. But – for this feast – I don’t bloody know, elf, and I don’t really care either,” he huffs again, and pats me, “very nice,” and then hoists himself to his feet.  
I lie, lazily, watching him as he moves about, stripping, pouring water to wash, and how I love to look at him. He is beautiful to me, as he ever was, as he ever will be, even though I can see changes in him, and I know he is not sure they are changes for the better. How could they not be? They are changes caused by years of living well, of work that is sometimes behind a desk or in a forge – not always fighting, no longer living on short rations. 

Do not deceive yourself Legolas.

Many of them are changes caused by time.

Time which runs so fast, so fast. Time I cannot stop. Time I would give anything – anything – a thousand years of my life before I met him, every scrap of praise or honour I ever won, every ear-touch Ada ever grudgingly bestowed – to slow.

Even now, even here, by his fire, watching his body, feeling myself well-loved, pleasurably aching, still tasting him, I feel the tears gather in my eyes.

There is not enough time in all the created world, there has never been enough time, there will never be enough time, it is not possible for me to have time enough with him, I love him so.

Stop it.

He will see, he will turn in a moment, and – and either he will call you a daft sodding elf for being melancholy, or he will realise what ails you, and then he too will be heartsick.

Simply enjoy the sight of him.

But I am half-dreaming, and can only be grateful to elven reflexes when he throws a wash-cloth at me.

“Get up, wash, daft sodding elf, you will make us late. It may take us a while to put all your bloody jewellery on.”

I am about to retort that it does not take me long, and if it did, whose fault is that, who gifts me more and more jewels with every season – when I hear what he said.

‘It may take us a while’. 

‘Us’. 

Oh.

 _Oh._

_That_ sort of evening.

And I smile, as I rise and wash, melancholy chased away by his words.

Once dry, I begin to brush out my hair, watching him still as he hunts down the clothes he wants, and I am not sorry for his untidiness when it gives me the chance to admire him for so long. He huffs, as though he would blame someone other than himself, and I watch his muscles move under his skin – his glorious glowing skin, glowing with annoyance I suspect, and with health, and satisfaction, all at the same time, and – I watch his inkings as they shimmer in the firelight, I see my name on him, over his heart, part of him, in among all the other marks – marks of his family, his skill, his story, and as ever, his beauty takes my breath away, and I stand here, barely moving, only longing.

He looks across, my stillness catching his eye, and he laughs,

“Oh my Legolas,” he says gently, “what are you thinking about, lovely? You don’t have to wait to be asked you know –“ and I am in his arms again, and he kisses me, and I am his, only his, forever his, my hands running over him, and he – he is laughing, and I remember how once I thought he laughed at me when I am like this – but now, now I know he laughs from sheer happiness.

And I laugh back.

After a time – not long enough, it is never long enough – I pull back,

“This is not progressing us much,” I say ruefully, supposing I should continue to tidy myself,

“Speak for yourself, pretty elf,” he answers, “I feel very – progressed.” And he guides my hand downwards again, making me gasp as I find just how eager he is indeed, “Indeed, my ghivashel, I would say you were not backward,” he continues, and – oh he touches me, and I – I am on fire, I burn as I ever have – and I cling to him in my need. “In fact, I am almost dressed, and if you would do something useful with those clever hands, and lace me – I would be done, and we could then sort you out.”

I make a sad noise, disappointed that we are to stop this, and he laughs again,

“Later. I promise. But now – I need you to be well-behaved. Please. Lace me up, if you can remember how, and then – then I will comb you, and deck you in your jewels, and you can braid me if you will.” He holds me close, waiting, and I nod resignedly.

“As you say, my lord; you are right, and your loyal consort obeys your every word.”

It is the truth of my heart, and if he chooses to hear it as a veiled tease, a promise, then no matter. I cannot always stop myself speaking the words I have so longed to say, the words that promise me I am not alone. He forgets, I think, the differences between the informality of dwarven royalty and the cold formality of Sindar – and while I dread the cold, I need sometimes to use the words that come to my lips, the words that I was taught, the way in which any Sindar would speak to a kingly husband. And if I was taught to expect to hear them, to speak instead to a wife – well. Not even the wise can see all ends.

Once he is laced, he shoos me to the rug, to wait while he finds my comb – oh my most untidy dwarf, how his habit of not being quite sure where he had laid it used to terrify me, until I learnt to trust that he would not actually lose it, would not allow my comb to fall into another’s hands – and then he comes to me, carrying also the box of my jewels, and – and something wrapped in a soft cloth. I raise my brow, wondering what it is, but it seems I am not to find out just yet. He sits in a chair, and makes a little gesture,

“Kneel in front of me, you need combing.” 

Brusque though his words are, his hands are gentle, and I relax, letting myself drift, loving this perfection as he combs me, whispers love to me, touches my ears, and then slowly, carefully, braids me, putting in the beads he gave me that show I am his choice.

“Lovely,” he says, and I kneel still, as his hands trace over me, waiting. I know what will come next, and I love it. 

First, first he carefully touches my necklace, as though to check it is still there.

He lets his hands move down, trace over the inking, feeling me shiver with remembered pain, although I think he has no idea how I felt – I watched him as I marked him with my name, and he seemed to feel it so much less.

Then he opens the box, and takes out the other necklaces, one by one, he places them on me, each one he arranges, he fastens, he strokes on so carefully.

“Beautiful,” he says, and I wonder – not for the first time – whether even he knows if he means my jewels, or my body.

Gently, carefully, he raises my arm, and checks the bracelet that is always there.

Again, carefully, he adds the other bracelets, and then arranges them as I keep my arm at shoulder height, motionless.

Satisfied, he nods, and I feel his beard move against me, and I have to stop myself shivering again – I know that would spoil the effect. 

He raises my other arm, and there are more bracelets. Each one, like the others, a work of – craft – not art, art is not the word, I have learnt – of mithril twisted with gold, inlaid with sapphires. Each one, I do not know the value, I care not, but I suspect, from things I have heard whispered by those who do not know elven hearing – I suspect the value of each is great.

To me, to me they would be priceless were they made from twisted leather, scraps from a saddler’s shop, from pebbles picked up by the wayside.

I have many faults, but a love of riches is not one of them.

He reaches into the box again, and out comes the belt, and I wonder, as I always wonder, why he likes to put this on now, when it only has to almost come off again when once I dress, and must redo it over my clothes. But he does, and I do not mind, if it pleases him. As ever, he sits it low on my hips, and tight, and his hands stay there a long while.

“Perfect,” he says.

Then – oh then – he reaches into the box again, and my breath catches as I see what has come out next. 

Ear-cuffs.

The first time he persuaded me to wear one – well, two – of these – I did not know – what to think. All these years, I have seen Men and dwarves with them, with pierced ears even, and been quietly horrified, and then – to find he expected me to wear them. But I had no idea how they would feel.

How – wonderful.

How – painful.

Yet – I cannot but long for the next time. 

Painful is not right. Pain – I do not like pain. This sensation – this is as when he bites my ears – there is a sting – but – I can only beg for more when he stops – it is – beyond and into pleasure.

And so, the first time he placed these on me, and then – expected me to go down to dine, to sit among all his dwarves – as though – as though I were on display in my need, my arousal – I was – utterly ashamed. I could not think what I had done that he would treat me so.

I think I even wept, and asked for forgiveness, and yet – I could not bear him to take them off.

I could only ask him to tighten them – beyond, I now know, what is normal.

He did not understand. And I – I could barely manage to speak of how I felt. 

When at last he made out what I was trying to say, he would have taken them off, melted them down, made something else of them, but – but that I would not let him. And I found that to dwarves – to mortals – an earpiece is no more than a bracelet, a necklace, a trinket.

Truly, mortals are very strange sometimes.

Now, he strokes my ears, and I close my eyes, and lean into the caress.

“Yes?” he asks, he knows to ask before he puts them on, he knows all sense is driven out by the sensation, “wear these tonight? There are no elves, none but our dwarves. They have all seen them before. They do not know how you feel, and they would not care if they did. The way the beer will flow tonight, you could kneel to me in front of them all, and few would remember tomorrow – but don’t. Please don’t. I would remember.”

I laugh, as though I would do such a thing, I am not completely shameless in my need and desire, 

“Droin does not drink these days,” I say, “he would remember.”

I do not add, and he probably has a good idea what these ear-cuffs mean to me, close as he is to Caradhil. And once again, I thank Aule that of all his children, it is Droin who sees these things, Droin who knows, and Droin who corresponds with Caradhil – Droin who can be trusted not to tell things I could not bear my friend to know.

He huffs in a way that tells me he is smiling, and dismissing his cousin, as, I think, he has always dismissed his cousin, much though we depend on him now, and I make a note in my mind to be nice to Droin, to talk to him, to ensure he is appreciated for all his efforts.

And then he begins to fasten the first ear-cuff, and my world narrows as my breathing speeds. 

One after another – and these days there are so many, so many small cuffs fitted around the point, and then larger more ornate ones which fit along the ear, and I do not know what else, I cannot think, I cannot think of anything but the sensation, the feeling, of how each one is like a bite, so gentle, and yet so – so – promising of more.

Today he decides to fit one ear completely, and then he takes my other ear into his mouth, and I – I whimper, as he kisses, and bites, and oh, I want to cry out, and move, but I know this game, if I cry out, he will stop, if I move he will stop – and besides it will disarray my other jewellery – so I do not, I kneel quite, quite still, keeping my arms out, motionless as only an elf can be motionless, breathing hard, feeling myself become more and more desperate. And then – I have won. He leaves off biting for a moment, and, “oh fuck, I want, again, I want,” he is every bit as desperate as I, he is moving against me, I can feel his hips rocking against my back, he is holding me against him so tightly, and I – I think I might come soon. 

One of his hands moves back to my ear, to the ear that is not still in his mouth, and he tightens each cuff in turn, and now – now I am making little noises, and he speaks into my ear, and the sensation is such that I can hardly concentrate on what he says,

“Yes? Now? Or wait until later? Only – I don’t know if I can – I want you so – you sound so good, yes?”

“Yes, please,” I say, and somewhere I wonder if other elves are more eloquent than I at these moments, but I do not care, I do not care.

His mouth moves away, and I cry out in need, but it is alright, he is only scrabbling for the other cuffs, I realise, and he puts them on, careful, always careful my dwarf, my love. He puts them on, and tightens them all in one go, and I – I think I might very well die from pleasure, I am so aching, so needing, oh it hurts, it is so good, I want, oh please, please, and then he is biting at my neck, and I love it, and oh do not stop, please, oh please Gimli, and I do not know which words I am crying out, and which are only in my head. But it does not matter, he never needs my words, he knows what I want, and then – then he is unlacing himself I can feel behind me, and he – he must have one hand on himself, and the other is on me, and he does not stop kissing and biting at my neck. He pulls me back against him, and I can feel him moving against me, and his hand on me, and I – I am crying out for him, and he licks a stripe up from the mark I can feel he has made, and his mouth is by my ear again as he speaks,

“Come for me, come for me pretty one, want to see you come like this, that’s right, want to see your pleasure, come on my hand, come for me, wearing my jewels, my marks on you, your ears aching with my decorations, come for me, my elf, my love, and know that I am going to come on you, yes, not just in your mouth, not just inside you, but on you, want you to smell of me, want you to know you’re mine, come for me, come now Legolas, come.” And I do, falling into him, calling his name, knowing he holds me, he loves me, I am his, and he is mine, as his pleasure coats my back.

He holds me, steadying me, as we both try to remember what we were doing, and find our breath again.

“Fuck!” he says, “oh fuck, elf, we are very nearly going to be late.”

I cannot help it, I laugh.

“It is not bloody funny,” he says, “you are nowhere near dressed, and I am dishevelled.”

I turn and look at him,

“It is funny,” I say, “it is very funny. They are hardly going to start without you, you are their king.” I shrug, “Royalty makes its own right time, have you not learnt that yet? Besides,” I look at his clock, which I have now learnt to read, although I still do not see the point, the fuss it causes, “we have – I think – nearly, yes, nearly half an hour. Sit still, and I will sort you out, and then you can finish me off.” I catch his eye, and hear my words, “not like that. Sensibly. So your cousin can be proud. Oh you know what I mean.” And I push him, gently, as he laughs.

He is not so very dishevelled. Nothing that a thorough lick, lacing up, and then a proper combing cannot put right – licking him clean for his delight, combing him for mine. He is impatient, but I do not hurry over any of it. I never hurry over these things.

He is King. He should learn to act it, and make them wait.

“There,” I say, at last, “you look – oh sweet Aule, Gimli-nin, you look edible.” And I run my hands over him, wanting again.

“Bloody elf,” he says, and I know he does not mean it in anger, “You are incorrigible.”

“Encourageable?” I ask, “Do you think I need more encouraging? Am I not pleasing you enough?”

He growls at my elven nonsense, and goes to the other side of the room to throw me my tunic, my leggings, and then hunt about for boots for us each while I begin to dress, and redo my belt. Then I realise,

“My back,” I say, “I will stick to my tunic, wipe me?”

“Kneel down again, bloody tall elf,” he mutters, and then – I realise he has no intention of wiping me. Instead he is – merely rubbing the stickiness in, as though it were an oil for easing muscles. “I told you,” he says, “I want you to smell of me. Everywhere.” 

And the words – the words which really should not – leave me aroused once more, so that my ears become aware again of the tiny aches, the teeth-like grips that are all round them, I become aware of the taste of him in my mouth, the ache and – and dampness from our loving between my legs, and I wish – I wish my tunic was longer.

“One more thing,” he says, when I think we are ready, “kneel again, love.”

So I do, wondering what now. He unwraps the cloth, and I see – I am not quite sure what I see. A mesh of mithril, and gold, with sapphires, but – I cannot see where this is to go. I look up at him as he stands over me, and I wait. Then as he stretches it over his hands I realise. Those are my hair-clasps – I should have realised he had not put them in. 

This – this is a – a sort of net to wear over my hair.

I have seen the like in pictures.

But – I think to dwarves, to Men, they mean nothing more than decoration, as do all jewels. To me – to wear that – it is saying – very clearly – that he is my lover – that he delights in dressing me up – that – that – this is – about – pleasure.

I suppose – it is a statement that we – find pleasure in bed. Something beyond combing.

And he has no idea what he is asking, as he raises it to show me, and says,

“Yes? I thought – on your hair – it will look – beautiful. Imagine the glimmer of all the lights in the caves on it. You are my perfect jewelled elf of the caves. I would give you every jewel there is in this world. Yes?”

I am silent a moment, wondering if I can do this.

I see his face, his dear face, and I see the sudden worry, as he thinks I do not like it, that there is something wrong.

And I wonder why I care what any other should think. 

It is not as though any of it would be a lie.

In truth, it is not as though there are many – any, I think – who do not know.

After all these years, I think everyone knows how we are. If they do not, then they should. I love him, he loves me, we – we are exceedingly noisy about it. 

Apparently.

His dwarves – have never minded, although I suppose they may have been surprised at first. Men – neither of us have ever cared for their opinions. The halflings – oh the halflings, they make me smile. They still – still – prefer to speak of us as friends only. I suppose it is their way, and I do not really care. We do not see a great deal of them, busy as they are with their own lives, and they are perfectly pleasant when we do. Just – they prefer to pretend we are still friends only. 

As for my elves – and indeed, it is my elves, and only my elves who would read this hair-ornament as I do – it is long since they ceased to be my elves, and became Caradhil’s elves. And my Caradhil – my dear Caradhil – my Caradhil whom I have depended upon for more years than either of us cares to remember – my Caradhil has known how things are since that very first morning in Minas Tirith. 

My Caradhil would never let any insult me, or think less of me.

My poor Caradhil. I wish – I wish there was a way to find the one who would love him as he deserves, the one whom he could love also.

It seems to me, that for all his love of his children, for all his rule of Ithilien, and the love of his elves, for all his skill and liberality with his comb – he is lonely. 

But none of that matters to me right now.

All that matters is here, in this room.

My lord is all that matters to me, my lord and our love.

And his excessive ways of showing it.

“Beautiful,” I say, “Gimli-nin, you are of all dwarves most skilled. I am honoured. I – please, may I wear it?”

He smiles, and my world is perfect.

 

 

 

 

He looks, as I knew he would, as he always does, stunning.

All through the meal, I can hardly keep my eyes – or my hands – off him.

Fuck.

Always thought, if I thought about it, that being with one only – I’d get bored. Want to stray. Even – even when I knew I loved him, needed him, I wondered.

Worried about it.

Bloody idiot Gimli.

Oh, I don’t mean I’ve never looked. Of course I bloody have. Not a sodding hobbit.

But – never wanted another. Not really. Not the way I want him.

And – oh fuck – I am supposed to be concentrating, this conversation is probably important.

I don’t care.

I never do.

Thank Mahal for Droin. Else this work of ours, this Aglarond – would be nothing.

Because, for all my fancy ideas, for all my dreams, for all my protests of work, I am, I sometimes think, the laziest dwarf alive.

I do nothing.

For days, when we are elsewhere, I do nothing.

Even when we are here – how much did I actually do today? Oh, I signed some bits of paper which will make Droin happy. I read them. 

I have no idea what they said.

And even in the midst of my thoughts, I am not free. He looks at me, his hand slides up my leg – and I remember briefly when it was I who used to do this, and he would blush, and wriggle, and I wonder how things have changed, as I feel my body heat with desire – and he says, quietly, but very clear,

“Ci sui li erin lam nin.”

And while I am still trying to get over that one, he goes on, still in his bloody elvish, but I am not sure, not quite sure whether any other here can understand him, but he takes my breath away as he tells me just how good he feels, how he can not only still taste me, but still smell me on his hands, on his skin, how he knows he carries my scent, how his ears are aching and aching from the cuffs. Never occurred to me how much he would like those, I think, stupid fucking Gimli, how did I not see that? But he does, and he tells me all about it, how he needs me, wants me, how I need not take any time preparing him tonight, because he is still so ready from earlier. How he is weighed down with my jewels, how he is mine, whatever I want, whenever I want it, how he is obsessed with me.

Fuck, I think, this is the elf who once upon a time could barely ask me to kiss him, who had no words for any of it. 

“I want you again, and again,” he tells me, “I want you to ride me tonight until I can barely walk. You have me desperate with longing, I need you so.”

All the time, there are others talking to each of us, all the time, we are each replying, but every so often, he drops back into his language. And I – I am losing concentration rapidly.

This is beginning to feel like the longest bloody feast I have ever been to, and I am wondering just how bad it would be for the lords of Aglarond to leave in the middle, I am so hard, so urgent my need the way he is playing me, and I know, I know he is doing it on purpose, and I am his, and I have no control at all. I can only hope my dwarves have all drunk enough not to notice, or not to care, and that there is not much of this feast left to wait through.

“I can still feel your pleasure inside me,” he says, and I suppose I should be grateful that Sindarin is not a language one can be too explicit in – there are no really scurrilous words, all must be turned into more courtly phrasing, “I ache from your loving, I need more. I do not know what I most need, to taste you again, to kneel before you, to offer myself on hands and knees, or to be on my back, you above me, pounding into me with all your strength. I would do anything for you, any game you want, I am desperate for you.” Fairly explicit, I suppose. His hand is busy, and I wonder if I have any chance at all of leaving the table without disgracing myself. “I need you to comb me, I need to run my hands through your hair, your beard, I want to rub myself against you, all over you, I adore you.”

It occurs to me to wonder, desperate as I am to distract myself, whether Sindarin really does not have the words I would use, or if it is simply that no-one has ever taught them to my pretty prince. Elves being what they are, possibly there are not such words, or possibly there is a strong disapproval of saying them to one who is unmarried. 

“Or maybe I should sit astride you? Let you lie back under me, watching me find my pleasure on you, moving slowly for hours, as only an elf can, keeping you waiting, hard, in me, and then bringing you with me. Would you like that? Yes, I think you would.” Fuck. It’s a good thing there aren’t any more explicit words, I think. I don’t think I could stand more than this.

But this is a dwarvish feast. What is a feast without hours of drinking and music?

And these dwarves – oh fuck – these dwarves, my dwarves, have learnt to call for elvish music. Only as a sort of light – digestif – a gentle introduction to the real music – but still. The mood my sodding elf is in, he will probably decide to sing – I don’t know – some bloody ballad full of innuendo.

No.

Worse.

He speaks to Thuin, and once the music has started, I see – oh sweet fuck – he is dancing. Now I think of it, Sindarin, and elves, being as they are, there probably isn’t a song that could embarrass me.

But this.

He is not dancing one of his – courting dances – as he still rather sweetly refers to them. He knows too well what my dwarves would make of such behaviour from one so long vowed – and he knows I would not be happy. 

However.

Even when he dances like this – a dance with knives, a dance to call down luck in hunting apparently – he is incredible to watch. Even after all these years, I cannot quite believe his skill, his speed, his strength – his beauty. 

Or my luck.

He finishes, and comes back to sit by me – but first there are others who wish to talk to him, to praise him, to ask him stupid bloody questions – and he stops to speak to them.

I should be proud of him.

I should be pleased he is so accepted, pleased that my dwarves care for him so, pleased that he has won them over so completely.

I should be grateful that one of us is capable of princely behaviour at all times.

I am not.

I want him here, now. No. I want him back in our room, I want him with all his attention on me, now.

Something of it must show in my face, because when he does make it back to my side, he very deliberately takes my hand and raises it to his mouth, kissing in a way that looks simply courtly and charming – but which feels – extremely – urgent.

“Has my lord feasted enough this night?” he asks, and I find my mouth is too dry to answer.

My dear cousin Droin, sat beside my elf, sighs,

“Yes, your lord has certainly sat here long enough, Legolas-elf, take him to your rooms. Although I very much doubt he has sleep in mind.” He looks from one to the other of us, “Iston I dhu hen and,” and then, smiling at the horror on my face and complete disbelief on that of my love, “pedon edhellen.”

Fuck.

Bloody Caradhil must have taught him.

 

Somehow we leave the Hall without disgracing ourselves further. I am still in shock that my cousin – my cousin – sat there and heard all that – and waited until now – to reveal he understood every fucking word.

Elf seems to find it funny.

“I don’t know why you are bloody laughing,” I say, “you won’t be laughing when bloody Caradhil starts teasing you.”

He shrugs, insouciant as ever,

“My Caradhil would never do such a thing. He never has, he never will. Nor will he let any other. Elves do not.”

No, I suppose they don’t. Not to Thranduilion, anyway. But,

“Your Caradhil? He may no longer be Meieriel’s Caradhil, but he is most certainly not yours. And don’t you bloody forget it.”

He flushes, sweet as ever, and defends himself,

“I did not mean – he is my loyal – always loyal – friend. Retainer. Whatever word you want,” then, as I open the door to our room, he is in and on his knees before me, and he knows well what a pretty sight he is, “forgive me, my lord, if I have caused you – discomfort – this evening.” His eyes are nowhere near my face, I notice, “I would gladly ease your – ache.” And the eyebrow raises, his mouth opens a fraction, and there is the most wonderful tongue in the whole of Arda running over perfect lips, tempting me.

“You,” I slam the door, “you, ghivashel,” I wind my hand in his hair, and pull upwards until his face is level with mine, “you,” as I begin to undo his braids, carefully so as not to disarray the jewels but I will have him unbound before me, “you are the most delicious,” kiss, “delightful,” kiss, “pleasing,” kiss, “perfect,” kiss, “skilful,” kiss, “and above all, naughtiest elf in this land or any other.” I hold him to me, his arms wind round my neck and I kiss him properly, feeling him relax into it, feeling him melt, “whatever shall I do with you?”

He smiles, I can feel the smile,

“Whatever you desire, I said. But,” he is laughing, “but you had best hurry up. I have been waiting and desperate a long while now. And elves are not built to withstand such agony.”

“Are they not, my pretty one?” I ask, and now – now I know precisely what I intend. “Then you had best strip off, and get yourself back on that rug in front of the fire.” And how I love that he does. As desperate for me, as I am for him. 

 

 

 

So once more, I am kneeling here, waiting. Wearing only my jewels, feeling the weight of them, feeling the tightness on my ears, and now – now feeling the weight in my unbound hair. 

It occurs to me to wonder whether my love really did know precisely how this would feel. It is by no means impossible. 

The words I spoke to him earlier were all true. Despite the long meal, the drinking, I can still taste him in my mouth – at least, I think I can, which is all that matters – and I am indeed as ready as I need to be, eager for him again, wanting his arms round me, his mouth on me.

He seemed shocked that his cousin understood my words. 

I do not know why. It seems to me I spoke of nothing that any dwarf would not know was between us. I would not speak so in front of elves, true, but – dwarves are different. Surely. He has spent years telling me dwarves are more open about such things.

And now I – I care not who knows what we do, I care not what any thinks. He is my love, I am his, his elf, his most beloved jewelled elf. 

That is the truth of our lives.

What care I for others?

I wait as he – I do not know what he is doing – fossicks about. As dwarves do. Even this dearest of dwarves. 

Eventually he comes over to me, and I see he has removed all his formal clothing, removed his boots, wears only his shirt and breeches. He sits himself down on the chair, and I move to kneel between his legs, rest my head against him, and he runs his hands over me, through my hair, over my back, my shoulders, and lower, and I shiver, and bring my hands up to unbraid his hair and beard, for he is mine, he shall be unbound before me as I before him.

We stay like this for some time, silently enjoying the closeness. Then he tilts my head up to look at him, and takes the plainest of my many necklaces in his hands.

“You are a very naughty elf, you know,” he says, and I blink slowly, licking my lips, and waiting, as he removes the necklace, and catches my hands in his. 

“Am I?” I ask, letting him move my hands behind my back, “what are you going to do about it, then, most powerful dwarf?” and I widen my eyes, tilting my head as I look up at him, knowing it distracts him, watching him lose the path of his thoughts as he carefully winds the necklace round my wrists, until my hands are – not actually bound at all, simply loosely encouraged to stay behind my back. Then he runs his hands back up my arms to my shoulders, and begins to stroke my ears, pressing against the cuffs, making me shudder and changing my song to little cries.

“I could put you over my knee and give you a good spanking,” he says, and our eyes meet.

There is a long moment where we both struggle for control.

I am not sure who loses first, but I am laughing, and biting my lip again as I lean into him, and he is snorting behind that wondrous mass of beard as he holds me close.

“No,” he says at last, “no. Entertaining though that evening was, I was thinking more along the lines of a bloody good fuck than helpless laughter.”

“It was just – so silly,” I say, and we smile into each other’s eyes, remembering. It seemed worth trying, it is – apparently – supposed to be fun. Well. Perhaps we are unusual. But – it just felt – ridiculous. 

Oh, there have been moments – how not, in all the years – when in passion he has slapped me, or I have bitten him, or one of us has overpowered the other – we have had our games, we have had wild, rough times, as well as gentle and tender – but – to pretend to be something, someone we are not, in that way – in the end, despite all his doubts, despite all my fears and longings – it was just funny. 

“Yes,” he says, “yes it was. Anyway. Tonight. I was thinking, beloved, what you were saying. And on that point – I have no idea how I am going to look my cousin in the face again – an early start perhaps, avoid him for some months. What you were saying. Yes. I think – it would be – very lovely indeed – if you were to sit astride me, with your hands precisely as they are now. I think it is time for me to do some talking. Yes?” and he drops his voice into the rhythm I love,  


“I think it would be very, very wonderful to watch you, to be deep within you, to hold your hips, let you move as slow or fast as you like, as you make those lovely sounds, as you try to get what you need, as you try for that friction where you need it, inside you, where you need me, but – I would not touch your pretty cock – just watch – see how long it takes you – watch your lovely ears – but not touch them – just let the cuffs hold them tight – yes? Does that sound good? I think you would like that a lot. Yes? My pretty elf, my most wonderful Legolas, my heart, my treasure, my One and only, I think you would like that very, very much, the way you are singing now. I think I would like to watch you, see you crying out for me, needing me so, I think I would like very much – very, very much – to, eventually, let you come like that – and then come inside you – see you shudder with pleasure one more time – yes, love? Does that sound a good idea?”

I bury myself in his beard, whimpering at the images, feelings his words conjure up.

“Yes, oh Gimli-nin, melethron-nin, saes, saes,” I say and he holds me so close, so safe, so loved, and I feel him drop one hand to check first that my wrists are able to slip free whenever I choose, then – I gasp – then that I am, as I have said, ready and more than ready for him.

“Or I could just make you come like this,” he says, “fuck, Legolas, you feel so good – always so good. I am the luckiest being alive.”

I laugh into him,

“Do you – ah – really – oh yes – want another argument?” I say, knowing that he will understand. He may consider himself lucky, but I – I know I am.

“Bloody elf,” he growls, and one hand starts unbuttoning his shirt. At last, I think, at last, and I lean forward – coincidentally allowing him better access with the other hand – and unlace him with my teeth. 

I could not do this once, I remember, once it seemed unbelievable that any could. How the years pass.

His cock – see, I can even use the word now – tastes as good as ever, and I – I wonder whether we will actually get any further than this – because this is so good, and I hear myself singing with delight around him – and I think – some things do not change. This was the first way I learnt to pleasure him – and perhaps that is why I remain so enthusiastic. 

Or perhaps I just really like this.

His hand is out of me, his shirt cast aside, he pulls me off him,

“Want – properly,” he says, and I smile at the predictability of my beloved.

He steps out of his breeches, and I stay still, watching, watching as he looks at me, as he strokes himself, as he lies down beside me, as he reaches for me.

“Anklets,” he says, musing, “anklets next. How could I have forgotten those for you? Such lovely ankles.”

I smile, and kneel astride him, he guides himself into me and I sink down until he is fully, completely, utterly where he ought to be.

I stay still, as long as I can, I stay still, just holding him in me, enjoying it, making him wait, making the pleasure last. He – he is a bastard sometimes – he is gently running hands over me, teasing, and all the time, talking, on and on. I suppose I asked for it, but I am increasingly desperate, moving on him faster, rubbing, needing, wanting so.

“Please,” I say, in the end, as he knows I will, “please, touch me, please, need it so, please love, please.”

He grins up at me, and I think I could cheerfully bite him,

“Soon enough, elf, where is the patience of elves gone?”

“Not – please – not this elf – please Gimli, want.”

He laughs again, 

“But it feels – so fucking good having you like this – you look so amazing. You are the best lover there ever was, the most perfect elf, just keep on – moving – like that – yes. Oh fuck. More.”

I cannot bear this much longer. I am crying out now, urgent in my need, aching, wanting, and then – then I stop. I stop moving. Completely. I stay very, very still, and then I raise myself off him – not completely – just enough that now it is he who is groaning, crying out, begging me for more.

I smile, I raise my eyebrow. 

“Really?” I say, “Do you not want to just – look at me?”

And I slip my hands free, letting the necklace fall – wherever it will, I care not, it is only dead metal – and bring my hands to touch myself where he knows I need it. One hand caresses my ear, one on my cock, I slowly, slowly bring myself nearer and nearer, my eyes watching him watch me.

I am so close, so close, when – and oh the strength of dwarves – he moves. He holds my hips, he tips us sideways, and – I never know how he does this, and I am glad I am flexible as only an elf is flexible – and sometimes I wonder how he learnt to do this and who he learnt with – but I have long decided it is better not to know – and I am on my back, and he is over me, pounding into me, his hair falling over his shoulders and into my face, into my mouth, my hands tangling in his hair, oh Valar yes, and he – he pulls back and I – I am calling out for him, screaming his name, telling him not to stop, I love him, I love him so, I am his, always, always. He is triumphant, and he takes my ankle, – “pretty ankle” – he says again, and bends my leg up and back and – oh Valar, oh Valar – he is so deep in me as he moves again, and the friction as I wrap myself around him, as I cling to him, as he reaches down between us, as he touches me – I am falling, falling into him, as he surrounds me, loves me, fills me, completes me.

He rests on his elbows above me, and I draw him down onto me, holding him, 

“Fuck,” he says, my beloved, golden-tongued dwarf, “fuck that was good. Again. Knackered now though. You want to sleep in bed tonight, elf, you have to get us there.”

“In a bit,” I say, and I let my hands wander through his hair, as he drifts towards sleep.

“Oh bollocks,” he mutters, his hands busy again, removing the ear-cuffs, as I sigh, knowing he is right, knowing they should come off, but – missing them already, “you wanted to start early. Haven’t packed. Why didn’t you bloody pack this afternoon when I was busy?” And then the pain kicks in as the blood rushes back into my ear-tips and I – I can think of nothing but his hands comforting me, and I cry out, and oh – oh my Gimli – it hurts – but – oh please – hold me – hold me – I need you so – please – and he is there, always there, always there for me. “Sssh now,” he says, his hands so gentle, so soothing on me, “ssh now, pretty one, it’s alright, I am here, alright now, ssh.”

I cling to him, and it passes, and I smile, running hands through his hair again, 

“Sorry,” I say, “there is always that moment of payment for the pleasure.”

He huffs, and begins the old complaint,

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t insist on having them so tight. They are supposed to be decorations, not, I don’t know, some bloody kinky thing – “

I laugh,

“I did not hear you complaining at the time,” I say, and we have had this argument so many times that I truly cannot be bothered to go over it again, so I move on, “and as for packing – you know perfectly well what I was doing all afternoon. And you loved it. You love me at your feet, you know you do, whether I am busy pleasing you or not, but, I had forgot about packing,” I sigh, “I will pack when you are asleep. You drank too much, you will snore tonight. So I will pack. We do not need to start early – we do not need to start at all tomorrow – although – it would be nice to reach – somewhere pleasant for tomorrow night.”

“Edoras?” he asks, and I shake my head,

“No, not Edoras,” I answer, “too many listening ears. I have plans for tomorrow.”

“Insatiable bloody elf,” he mutters, “how many times today? This morning, lunchtime, this afternoon, twice this evening and now – and you are still planning tomorrow. Spoilt, that’s what you are.” 

I run my hands through his hair again, and I kiss his ears – oh his ears, his sweet, sweet, funny little ears – and I smile as I whisper,

“Well, my love, my poor dwarf, my poor exhausted dwarf – perhaps I will let you lie back, perhaps I will pleasure you tomorrow. It is a long time since I made you scream for me under the trees.”

He tenses for a moment, and then laughs,

“Oh, like that is it, princeling? So the challenge is – how many times then? Alternate days on top? You know who will win. Always. Showy stunts, and tricks are all very well, elf, but I am built to last, you know this. But I will think of a forfeit you will enjoy, don’t you worry, my pretty one.”

And I hold him tight, ignoring his words. I can see threads of mithril in his hair, and it scares me. 

There is part of me which begins to understand – days like this are numbered. He ages. Not much, not yet, he is a dwarf, they are indeed built to endure, to stay in their prime for long years. But – as other mortal friends begin to die, as dwarves I have known begin to age, as I realise he is as old now as his mother when first I met her – as old as his father when first I ate his bread, sat at his hearth – I begin to understand, time passes.

Time which will bring the bitter taste of old age and mortality to our love story.

He said, long ago, he said he would sail west with me, and I believe he meant it. But – I know now, it will not be the young warrior that I take with me, but the lord king in his wisdom.

Not that I care. 

He is my love, and always will be.

I said, long ago, I said I will follow him when he dies, and I know I meant it, I know I will. But – I have no idea what I will find in those Halls. I am not sure any dwarf really knows. 

I do not care, not really, so long as he is there.

But – if we have only these few more years of – of this pleasure – then I would make each day count.

I would have us store up memories.

**Author's Note:**

> Sindarin - at least, not a scholar, best efforts from websites - happy to be corrected,
> 
> Ci sui li erin lam nin - you are like honey on my tongue
> 
> Iston I dhu hen and - you are in for a long night
> 
> pedon edhellen - I speak elvish (corrected now, thank you Jess!)


End file.
